


Until They Mean Something

by noahcomemidnight



Category: Daredevil (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bisexual Matt Murdock, Blind Character, Canon Disabled Character, Clint Barton Feels, Deaf Clint Barton, Dumpster Bois, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, I'm Sorry, M/M, Matt Murdock is an IDIOT, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Season Three of Daredevil, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Tattoos, trash babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-08-16 18:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16500473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noahcomemidnight/pseuds/noahcomemidnight
Summary: Matt Murdock doesn't know what the words upon his skin say-- they're not raised. How is he supposed to know who his soulmate is?Pre-Infinity war, but Post-Civil War + Post-Daredevil Season 3





	1. Out of Sight, Out of Mind

**Author's Note:**

> so the hawkdevil platform doesn't seem to have any generic tropes or AU stories. here's one where the first words of your soulmate appear on your wrist on your twenty-first birthday.  
> you're welcome

Matt Murdock knew he had a soul mark. He’d feel the skin over his wrist prickle whenever he romantically engaged with someone else. He knew he had a soulmate. It just made Matt so furious that the tattoo of his soulmate’s first words to him weren’t raised. He didn’t know who his soulmate was, much less what they were supposed to say to him. He’d almost had Foggy read out the words to him in college when they were appeared with a burning fury on the morning of his twenty-first  birthday. Matt ended up deciding not to have Foggy read his words for him in the end, not particularly wanting to fuck with the system. He was so glad that Foggy didn’t read his words, especially when he took on the vigilantism and persona of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. He didn’t want to know if his soulmate could potentially be one of the thugs he was beating up, or one of the crime lords he was hunting down. Daredevil had become his life, and he’d rather die as Daredevil than live as Matthew Murdock.

Or so he thought.

After Fisk, Agent Nadeem, Agent Poindexter, and the subsequent chaos, he was more thankful for Karen and Foggy than he ever had been in his entire life. They teased the idea of Nelson, Murdock, and Page, but it became a reality, moving back in to their old shitty office space and setting up shop not a two months later.

Their first case was a call from a blocked number. After furrowed brows and sideways glances, the call was placed on speaker.

“Nelson, Murdock, and Page, how can we assist you?” Karen politely asked the caller, who immediately responded.

“Yeah yeah, skip the niceties. You know who I am, and you probably know what I want.” Came the voice of Tony Stark, who sounded more bored than anything.

“What lawsuit is being held over your head this time, Mister Stark?” Foggy responded in good fun, and Stark sighed.

“It’s a PR nightmare. I’ll have a driver pick you up from your address at three this afternoon.”

Before a conversation could be held about who would be going to represent the firm, Foggy sealed the deal.

“Matt… you should probably go. You have experience in areas with powered people.”

At three o’clock, a sleek, ergonomic car pulled in front of the building. Matt listened closely to the man’s heavy footfall, and the slight jump to his heart.

“Happy Hogan. I’ll be taking you to the Compound.”

Matt nodded, and the door was opened for him. He felt around, adding to the  façade of being blind, his fingers brushing the pleather upholstery. The door was shut behind him, and the overwhelming smell of new car flooded his senses, just as he heard the driver’s door shut, and he heard the chauffeur turn toward him.

“If you need anything, just let me know. It’s not a long ride.”

Matt could only nod, and he could hear the engine purr as they merged into the New York traffic. The ride was smooth and Matt listened to the honking and shouts of his city faded, giving way into the quiet surroundings that smelled of pine and other earthy aromas. Matt guessed that they were at least twenty minutes outside the city when the car crunched over gravel and pulled around a bend, before shutting off. The chauffeur-- Happy-- opened Matt’s door for him, who unfolded his cane and began  _ tap tap tapping _ his way down the gravel drive, listening to the almost nonexistent echos reverberating off of some sort of large structure. Happy led Matt through one of the doors, whether it was one the side of the building or the front, Matt didn’t know. He could feel the openness of the corridor that he was in, and began tapping his cane on what sounded like marble floor. Happy had already left him to his own devices, so Matt began touching walls and listening to the reverberation from his cane to any objects in the room. There were at least two pleather couches in some sort of sitting area, and as he continued to walk, he found several other rooms. Conference rooms with glass walls, engineering bays, and even some sort of sparring room were passed, until he entered a large open space. Granite countertops of a bar distinctified the kitchen area from the general lounge area with a television on the far wall. Faintly, Matt could hear an unsteady heartbeat that stuttered with every breath, and he could identify it as one Tony Stark approaching his location.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, because Pepper is… not a happy camper.” The billionaire sighed, placing a stack of papers on the countertop beside him. Matt frowned as he felt them, noticing no raised bumps for him to feel.

“Do you have digital copies? I can’t… feel them.”

“I think you can read them just fine, can’t you, Daredevil?” Tony’s voice sounded nonchalant, but Matt couldn’t let the billionaire know of his vigilante lifestyle. Not only would he never hear the end of all of the upgrades and improvements to his lifestyle, et cetera, but he’d also likely be harassed to join the Avengers, something which he didn’t want to do. He’d rather focus on his city, and his city alone-- not aliens and discourse between any remaining members of the Avengers that Stark hadn’t cut off.

“I cannot help you if I cannot read the documents, Mister Stark. Do you happen to have a digital copy? Because if not, I’ll call Miss Potts myself and ask…”

“Really, Stark? I thought we’d had a talk.”

Matt furrowed his brows and cocked his head, listening to someone new enter the room. The guy’s heartbeat was painstakingly normal, and Matt crossed off potential remaining Avengers off his mental list.

“Barton, I don’t recall ever asking your opinion.”

“Well, too bad. Accommodate for those of us who have disabilities, and maybe we’ll get along a little better.” The guy snarked in response, and Matt recalled reading about Barton before. Clint Barton. Archer. Avenger. Dog lover. What threw Matt off was the fact that the guy was disabled, because he didn’t sound like it. His heart beat just fine. No missing limbs, and he knew that the guy could see. Upon listening more closely, however, an almost inaudible shrill noise was coming from beside the archer’s head. 

He was deaf. He had hearing aids.

Stark let out a disgruntled noise and turned to stalk off somewhere, snapping Matt out of his trance. He was left alone in the presence of the archer, who just let out what sounded like a disappointed sigh, more than likely shaking his head. A silence crossed between them, and Barton moved into the kitchen, starting up what seemed to be a coffee maker.

“I get it. I’m disabled too.”

Matt felt his forearm burn, and his heart began to race. A shudder passed through his body, rattling his spine and wracking his brain. The brewing of coffee and the rhythmic tapping of Barton’s fingers against the granite became all too loud. The call of his phone telling him Foggy was trying to contact him. He shakily picked up the phone, and despite Foggy’s voice being all too loud, it still brought a mild sense of comfort to him.

“Matt, how’s everything going with Stark?”

“I’m leaving now. He’s... sending over the information.” Matt rushed out and hung up the phone. He frantically felt around with his cane, listening to the echoing off the wide corridors and praying that he could find a way out before having to speak to Barton again. He stumbled over to the set of doors from which he’d entered, finding Happy. The chauffeur said nothing, but pulled the car around and began driving back to return Matt back to the office.

So Matt sat. In silence. Trying to push away the anxiety that had gripped his body and terrorised him when Clint had spoken to him.

_ “I get it. I’m disabled too.” _

Even as the genuine sincerity of the archer’s words echoed in his mind, Matt felt blood roar in his ears and his mind grow fuzzy. His heart rate sped up once more, just as he felt his body burn hot. Instinctively, he touched his wrist, feeling the prickling of words underneath the calloused pads of his fingers. The fog faded from his brain as he sobered, his heart slamming against his ribcage as he realised that he knew what his soulmark said, and had known from the moment those words fell from Clint’s lips.

  
  



	2. Unrequited

_Baton. Now._

Clint’s words had seared his skin the moment he turned twenty-one, just as they did when anyone entered official adulthood. The words that graced his skin were in a slanted and rather narrow hand, becoming the blurred line between shitty chicken scratch like that of a doctor and halfway decent handwriting. He’d thought about having handwriting analysis run, but decided in the end to not try and find his soulmate prematurely. Maybe it was from the horror stories that he’d heard at the circus of those that tried to seek out their soulmate too early. Maybe it was because Clint didn’t know if he was ready for a soulmate just yet. Either way, Clint continued on with the chaotic lifestyle he’d grown used to with S.H.I.E.L.D and eventually, the Avengers.

Okay, the Avengers was a work in progress, especially the whole ordeal involving the Sokovia Accords and being trapped in a heavily guarded cell in the middle of the ocean. Clint was trying to not put too much stress on his sister Laura and her kids, and took a deal for house arrest. Unfortunately, since he’d been evicted from his apartment after not paying the bills while he was in jail in the middle of the ocean, he was on house arrest. At the Avengers Compound. Where Stark was lurking constantly.

Things could have been worse.

For the first few weeks, there were attempts at convincing Clint that he was wrong and that he should have signed the Accords. Clint had ignored him. Then came the month of silence. Eventually it gave way into curt words, and now they were at the point where Clint was at the tail end of his two years of house arrest. Curt sentences were now the norm, and Clint couldn’t wait to just be the fuck out of the goddamn Compound. There’d only been so much to keep him entertained, and had even taken to the vents to explore and expose every corner of the godforsaken place.

So when Clint finished watching a movie and heard an unfamiliar voice in the kitchen, his interest peaked.

Stark was speaking to a man with chestnut coloured hair in a sleek black suit, who was gripping a white cane. As Clint rounded the perimeter of the living area, he noticed the man tilt his head in his general direction, his eyes hidden behind dark red-lensed glasses.

The guy was blind.

“I cannot help you if I cannot read the documents, Mister Stark. Do you happen to have a digital copy? Because if not, I’ll call Miss Potts myself and ask…”

“Really, Stark? I thought we’d had a talk.” Clint suddenly seethed, and while he really hated breaking off they guy’s soothing voice, he had to make it clear that Stark was in no way trying to accommodate for his guest, and that it was fucking _rude_.

“Barton, I don’t recall ever asking your opinion.”

“Well, too bad. Accommodate for those of us who have disabilities, and maybe we’ll get along a little better.” Clint couldn’t help but snap, and Stark stared at him for a long moment, scrutinising him. He let out a grunt of some sort, scowling slightly, before stalking off to wherever the hell.

Clint noticed the guy in the suit had his head cocked toward him, and just let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head. Stark could really be unbearable sometimes, especially when trying to spite people.

He approached the coffee maker and started it up, not only to offer the sweet caffeination juice to the guest, but to also caffeinate himself. He made the mistake of looking over at the guy, who had his brows furrowed slightly, his shell pink lips pulled into a tight line. His jaw and the stubble lining it were squared, most likely in anger or exasperation, and Clint offered his understanding.

“I get it. I’m disabled too.”

Clint didn’t see the guy tense up suddenly, but just as he made a cup of coffee for the guy, he was on the phone and walking out of the room. Clint felt himself sighed, but downed the mug of coffee anyway, before reaching for the pot itself and taking a sip.

He had no idea that his soulmate had just left the room.

He had no idea that his soulmate was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen until months later.

Clint had been tracking down some Russian mobsters, before being surrounded by some reinforcements that were definitely not Russian.

Okay. So this whole thing was a lot bigger than he’d expected.

Just as he was beginning to fend off the thugs, he heard the sounds of fists connecting with faces. Turning briefly, he noticed the infamous Devil of Hell’s Kitchen taking out some of the men. Clint could be thankful for his appearance later, but for now, he was more than overwhelmed with the number of guys still surrounding him. Fists were aimed at his face, and he may have broken a couple of arms and legs, but he couldn’t be too terribly sure. He was more preoccupied with the fact that he had a bullet wound that was bleeding profusely, along with the fact that the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was overwhelmed with two or the largest thugs. Clint kicked out one of their knees, just as the Devil tossed him some sort of rod. He gripped the rod and slammed it into one of the guy’s heads, hitting him again for good measure after he was knocked out cold.

“Baton. Now.”

Clint tossed him the rod, which was apparently a baton, just as he watched the Devil slam it into the side of the other guy’s head, likely cracking his skull. Clint didn’t care that the Devil was already standing and getting ready to depart. He didn’t care that they were both beat to hell and back. He didn’t care that they had to leave now or get caught otherwise.

“Those are my words.” Clint felt his heart slam against his ribcage, and just over the blood roaring in his ears, he heard the Devil respond.

“Those aren’t mine.”

And he walked off.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after all the responses on my last hawkdevil fic about being heartless, I figured I'd show that I really don't have a heart


	3. Depression + Detective Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so I forgot to make the chapters say like 2/5 so y'all thought it was OVER over. whoops.
> 
> I'm not done yet lmao
> 
> also: I know what I'm doing when talking about Clint and archery. I didn't win a gold at a state archery championship for nothing thank you very much.

The words burned Matt’s wrist, and guilt washed over him. The mere idea that someone who shared his lifestyle and understood the risks of the trade was unbearable. Barton understood danger and the whole ‘I’m pushing you away because I want to protect you’ schtick wasn’t going to work, especially if he knew that Matt was actually his soulmate.

So yeah, Matt Murdock more than likely broke the poor archer’s heart.

In truth, Matt wasn’t ready for the pressures of being with someone for the rest of his life. He had a city protect, and distractions couldn’t be afforded. Even if it did mean a potential partner both romantically and in terms of his unruly nightlife. Even if it did hurt Matt to see such a hopeful gaze become so melancholy in the blink of an eye.

It was for the best.

Right?

Well, that’s what he kept telling himself anyway.

Despite this, he still felt it was wrong. Like he’d pulled wool over the poor guy’s eyes and left him to figure things out himself. Such guilt riddled Matt that Foggy began to notice, and Karen soon after. They asked him if everything was alright. He’d brush them off without so much as a shitty excuse, before trudging through his day. He became less concerned with his surroundings, too caught up in a headspace that he didn’t know he was caught in, and began bumbling around and running into things, as if he were blind.

Which, yeah, he was, but still.

Matt began to second guess himself. Maybe protecting Barton was a bad idea-- Matt was actually lying to him and potentially hurting him more. Maybe it was a decent idea-- Barton would be less likely to get involved in Matt’s shitshow of a life. Maybe it was neither good nor bad.

Either way, Matt was unsure of what to feel.

And then he saw Barton again.

Matt had been finalising legal approaches to the ‘PR nightmare’ with Stark, when a salty smell overcame him, along with a racing heartbeat. Matt turned his head in the general direction of the new arrival.

“Barton.” Stark had clipped, turning back to whatever paper had been in his hands.

“Stark.” Was the curt and somewhat hollow response, and he heard the archer turn toward him. He heard the rustling of fabric, more than likely indicating the extension of a hand in greeting. “Clint Barton.”

It was a façade. Matt could hear right through the faked joviality. He could hear the autopilot of niceties despite the pain so obviously underlying his voice.

And it was all Matt’s fault.

  


…

  
  


Clint Barton was-- as the kids call it-- depressed. He had what S.H.I.E.L.D called ‘abandonment issues’, among the many other things horribly wrong with his human person. So upon finding out that the person who was supposed to have the corresponding words on his skin, but _didn’t_? Clint did the only thing he knew best-- secluded himself.

It was a lot easier to avoid people than deal with them. Just like it was better to keep your feelings in check by not feeling anything at all. Compartmentalising was a forte of Clint’s, so much so that it was second nature, and that everyone else realised something was up before he did. And when he felt everything ready to spill, he’d head down to the range. Breathe in. Breathe out. Clear your mind. Knock the arrow on to the string. Observe your target. Draw to the chin. Feel the simultaneous tension of your shoulders pulling the weight, yet the relaxation of muscle memory and loose posture. Exhale. Release. Loosen up. Draw another arrow. Rinse. Repeat.

On a particular day after over three hours down in the range, Clint resurfaced to find Stark and the blind guy who’d been at the Compound over about a month ago.

“Barton.”

“Stark,” He greeted the billionaire curtly, before turning toward the blind guy and extending a hand, “Clint Barton.”

“Matthew Murdock.” The guy responded, and shook his hand. It was firm and authoritative, just like the suit he wore.

Clint thought nothing more of him as he disappeared into his designated quarters. He ignored the muttering floating to his room, slipping back into a raggedy tee shirt and hot lilac pajama pants and back into bed. Too lazy to take out his hearing aids, he let the muttering lull him into a short nap. Short, as in, maybe an hour. A loud crashing noise scared Clint shitless, thanks to his hearing aids still being in his ears-- something that he wasn’t used to. Bleary-eyed, he left his designated quarters to make coffee, finding Stark and Murdock still in the general gather area. They were standing at either end of the dining table, papers scattered over every inch of the table. Both print and braille was visible, and both men looked exasperated. Stark was rubbing a face with one hand and holding a steaming mug of coffee in the other. Murdock had shed his blazer and had his button down sleeves rolled up, and his top few collar buttons were undone. He looked rather disheveled, his blank eyes staring tiredly as he sifted through papers. His hands went still for a moment, and Clint noticed a small… tattoo? On Murdock’s wrist. Before he could tell what it said, Murdock’s hands began flying wildly around the table, the words on his wrist becoming no more than a grey blur. Whatever he’d been looking for was found, and he passed it to Stark who muttered something softly, before walking out of the room.

Clint approached the cluttered able, finding Murdock cocking his head toward him. As if Murdock knew his intent, he rolled his sleeves down and began neatly collecting the papers. Clint grabbed the coffee pot and lingered in the kitchen, watching as Stark returned spouting something about legal loopholes and Murdock responded in his low, smooth voice. Clint faded into the background, and Murdock rolled up his sleeves once more, flipping back through some papers. The words on Murdock’s wrist were in a slanted kind of writing, and as he moved, Clint was able to make out some of the letters. There was definitely an ‘I’, possibly a ‘g’ or a ‘q’ beginning the next word… Clint found a legal paper of some sort on the kitchen counter next to the coffee pot, along with some sort of general-issue Stark Industries pen. He began scrawling down the letters, considering switching out letters that he couldn’t make out very well.

“ _I get it. I’m--_ ”

Clint felt himself pale. He didn’t even want to finish figuring out the rest of the possible letters and words. They were Murdock’s soul words. He had intruded on something private, and it made sense why Murdock was conscientious about his sleeves. His mark hadn’t faded or was marked through, so he didn’t know who his soulmate was. Clint almost felt the urge to finish his decoding and search for Murdock’s soulmate in the S.H.I.E.L.D system, but at the same time, he didn’t want to force the system or fuck things up. He sighed to himself, and let his curiosity get the better of him, finishing decoding the writing on Murdock’s wrist.

“ _I get it, I’m disable_ \--”

Stark snatched the paper from his fingers and carried it to the table. Stark glanced back at Clint, brows furrowed, before turning back to read the paper.

“ ‘I get it. I’m disabled too.’ ” Stark spoke, and Murdock visibly stiffened, his cheeks growing flush, despite his face not giving way from his stoic mask.

Clint felt the entire scene before him disappear as the realisation hit him-- he’d said those words to Murdock. But Murdock’s first words to him had been his own name when he introduced himself to Clint, and that was not what was written on the sides of his ribs. He was Murdock’s soulmate, but Murdock wasn’t his. Just like the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was Clint’s soulmate, but Clint wasn’t the Devil’s.

When Clint resurfaced from the depths of his thoughts and pity towards the lawyer, Stark was gone again, and Murdock was stowing some of the papers away into a briefcase. The pen that Clint had been idly twirling between his fingers suddenly became all too heavy. He wanted so desperately to apologise to the poor guy, but knowing the unfaltering mask that Murdock wore, he’d more than likely brush off the apology easily for the sake of professionalism. Clint had really only felt gut-wrenching guilt three or four times, and he felt himself grow nauseated with the fact that Murdock had to live like this-- with his soulmate being unrequited.

Clint felt himself move towards the guy, hesitating for a moment after witnessing an almost unnoticeable flinch that caused the poor guy to seize up for a split second. Had Clint not been trained, he wouldn’t have noticed, but the sudden movement sparked curiosity. The pen in his hands vanished as he tossed it at the lawyer from where he was still lurking in the kitchen, witnessing him tense up again even before the pen landed on the table. He jerked slightly as the pen clattered to the table, his brows furrowing as he lifted his head in the direction from which Clint was approaching. Stopping by the table, the archer did a quick assessment of the lawyer, debating whether or not to take further steps into the unravelling of Matthew Murdock, but decided against it.

He figured that he’d get his answers sooner or later, and knowing his resources, he was putting his money on the former.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost had Clint throw hands at Matt to see how he'd react buuuuuut I figured I wouldn't because that's too much out of character...  
> let me know what you think.  
> also the Avenger 4 trailer is supposed to drop tomorrow so super hyped for that. Far From Home is supposed to be teased at on Saturday so that's also whack as hell.


	4. Unanswered

Okay, so this is bad.

Scratch that.

It was very bad.

He was tied to some sort of pole in fuck-knows-where New York City.

Well, it wasn’t _exactly_ fuck-knows-where... it was some warehouse in a back alley behind a laundromat and a Chinese place in Hell’s Kitchen, but still. Suffering multiple lacerations, a shit-ton of bruises, and at least one cracked rib, Clint was _exhausted_. Forty-six hours without sleep and being beaten to hell and back did that to you. He was kind of wishing he’d stayed in bed, not attempting to dislocate his thumb and slide out of whatever kind of complex knot was tying his hands back. Hindsight was a bitch. These Russian tracksuits were a bitch. Even their partners in collusion, whoever, they were (something about a Hand?) could also be filed under the ‘bitch’ category.

One last tug and a muffled grunt later, Clint was stumbling around the empty warehouse, searching desperately for his gear. Everything smelled faintly of gasoline, and even despite the revelation that the whole place was going up in flames sometime soon, Clint didn’t bother to pick up his pace. Come what may, Clint knew he’d somehow make it out alive. He usually did. And if he didn’t, well…

He grabbed his bow that had been laying on a metal table, along with some other weaponry that must have been pooled together. He silently thanked any potentially existing deity, not only for his aids not being busted, but also the stupidity of his captors. He took no time in slinging his quiver over his back and nicking a few knives. Just in case.

The warehouse was eerily quiet. Muttered voices were floating from a room close by, and Clint could have listened in if it weren’t for the groaning of the water pipes and the faint dripping of the gas line. He snuck along the perimeter of the room, his fingers brushing along the jagged cement job. Clint avoided the area that held the low muttering, but unfortunately his luck ran out, for shortly thereafter, he was thrown to the floor. Before he could be assaulted any further by his attacker, there was a muffled grunt, a flurry of motion, and his attacker fell to the ground before the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Clint couldn’t find himself to be upset at his unrequited soulmate, instead finding himself thankful for the intervention.

“You’re hurt.”

He swore the guy’s voice sound familiar, like he’d heard it elsewhere not too far away…

“‘M fine.” He muttered, and prayed that the window for return to the Compound was still open. Stark’s new AI had taken a liking to him, and was the only reason he was able to blow off steam without Stark finding out. He was on the last few days of house arrest, and if he fucked himself over now…

“Aw house arrest no.” Clint let out a sudden whine, and the Devil hoisted him up, slinging one of Clint’s arms around his sturdy shoulders. Clint was half-dragged by the vigilante out of the warehouse and into the alley, where the guy dumped him.

“You’re fine. Wait here.”

Clint obeyed, not only because he wholeheartedly trusted his soulmate, but also because he was too damn tired to do anything else but sit. He listened to wood breaking and yells, footsteps thundering from one room to the next. Guns firing. Grunts of pain. Shattering of glass.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed exactly, but the Devil returned in a slightly more dishevelled state, limping slightly. Despite his apparent injury, the guy helped Clint up again, enabling them to use one another as a crutch as they slowly made their way through the dimly lit streets. Clint wasn’t sure of their destination, and couldn’t exactly bring himself to care. He was aware his feet his dragging, and his eyes fluttered closed every couple of moments, before forcing himself to stay awake. He could feel himself trudging up some back staircase, lulled to an almost-sleep by the rhythmic motions, and eventually he felt himself being pressed into some sort of soft surface. He felt exhaustion overwhelm him, not even caring that he was in an unfamiliar and potentially risky atmosphere.

 

...

 

Sunlight streamed through a set of thin white curtains, and Clint let out a soft grunt, curling himself further into the duvet and next to the fading warmth beside to him. He so badly wanted to drift back into a dreamless slumber, but the dull throbbing of his injuries was permitting him from doing such. So Clint sat up with great difficulty and rubbed his eyes, listening to the rustling of the sheets as he moved and making note that his aids hadn’t been taken out. The archer was mid-stretch when his heart dropped, and he opened his eyes, his vision no longer laden with the hazy blur of sleep. What greeted him was a plain bedroom with only a small wood nightstand, almost like it was some sort of hipster minimalistic floor model. Even the sheets on the bed were a pristine white, and Clint tossed them off, finding himself in a pair of charcoal sweatpants and an off-blue Columbia University tee shirt. He definitely didn’t own the clothing, which begged the question of where he was and who dressed him.

After a few moments of hesitation and listening to the unchanging silence outside of the door, Clint slid the door open slowly to be greeted with a grungy warehouse aesthetic. As if the sliding door to the bedroom hadn’t sold it, the leather couch and slightly gritty windows screamed “cheap rent made hipster”. There was a blanket beside the couch in a crumpled heap, but otherwise, the place was tidy-- a bowl of fruit sat on the table near the bar, a pot of now-cold coffee was sitting on the kitchen counter, and there was only an empty beer bottle by the sink. The place was way nicer than Clint’s apartment had been when he left it, but despite it’s slight homey feel, he was off-put by the fact that there was no one else to be found, and therefore, no one to answer his questions.

Clint wandered back to the bedroom, finding the other side of the bed occupied by his neatly pressed clothes from the night prior, along with his bow and quiver and the weaponry he’d snagged. Furrowing his brows, he touched his clothes, before snaking his hands under the duvet to touch the mattress. He’d recognised the warmth beside him from when he’d curled over into the sheets, and it hadn’t been his clothes.

Someone had slept next to him.

Clint slid on his sweatshirt and folded the weapons into his clothes, before slinging his quiver over his back and carrying his bow. His mind was full of unanswered questions as he navigated his way out of the apartment complex and to street level where he stood for a moment to collect his thoughts, before finding the nearest payphone and calling Stark to come pick him up.

“I thought you’d already grabbed your things the moment you were off house arrest.”

“I’m… free?”

“As of nine last night. I signed the waivers and I figured you’d already gotten a head start on getting out of here.”

Clint blinked, before recollecting that he’d voiced this complaint last night but the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen had told him that he’d ‘be fine’. It was almost as if the Devil _knew_ …

“Y’know what? I’m feeling generous. I’ll help you move your… junk back into your apartment.”

Clint snapped out of his thoughts, and while he didn’t like pity from Stark, he also didn’t feel like grabbing everything by himself and taking it via the subway or taxi.

“This doesn’t mean you’re good in my book, Stark.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Came the remark from the other end of the line, before the busy tone bore into Clint’s brain, along with one pertinent question:

How did the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen know when his house arrest ended?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey I left all of my social media to detoxify my life (because that shit is more toxic than you think) + this as well as either one or two other small accounts on other socials are all that remain. that's the reason for the delay in the updates but I swear I have the end finished-- I just have to tweak it.  
> also thanks for reading + sending feedback :)


	5. Full Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not really 100% pleased with this ending but here it is anyway

Three weeks after Clint moved back into his apartment, he came into contact with the Devil again. The team up was great, even if they had been hilariously outnumbered and barely made it out with all bones intact. It very much resembled the last time they met, but this time Clint was more cognitively aware that he was being patched up in the trashy hipster apartment. The Devil didn’t remove his suit as he assisted Clint with stitches and bandages, and the latter could only wonder how he saw out of those seemingly opaque eye holes to the mask. Clint, however, said nothing, not even when all of the questions that had been building in his brain for weeks threatened to spill out. He even forgot anything was on his mind to begin with when the man before him carefully leaned in, placing a band-aid across the archer’s nose. After reminding himself to breathe, Clint muttered a soft ‘thank you’, and the Devil mentioned a fresh pair of clothes were on the bed for him. As Clint passed by, he heard the guy mutter something, but only after he slid the bedroom door closed did he register what had been said.

_“--pushing you away still leads you here where you get hurt, which is beyond me…”_

There was no chance of mulling over the meaning of those words, because the moment he hit the pillows, he was dead to the world.

 

Waking up and knowing where he was this time was a whole different experience. He still found it strange that there was a fading warmth on the mattress beside him, and wondered if the Devil pitied him for the unrequited soulmate match…

Clint pushed the thought away as he rolled out of bed and rubbed his eyes, making his way into the kitchen to find a freshly brewed pot of coffee. Without so much as thinking, he picked up the pot and brought it to his lips…

“Good morning.”

Clint glanced up to find a soft smile upon pink lips, despite them being split, and his eyes flickered to the collared shirt being buttoned over a tattooed wrist, before moving up to see warm, coffee coloured eyes looking in his direction. At the same time as feeling his cheeks burn and realising that _wow, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen is really good looking_ , the soulmark over Clint’s collarbone tingled. In the nanosecond following, Clint’s brain registered that _wait, that’s Matt Murdock who had been helping Tony with legal things_ , a sharp breath that vaguely resembled a gasp was sucked in, and the coffee pot slipped from Clint’s hand, sending shattered glass and hot liquid across the kitchen floor.

Clint’s mind completely blanked out, his brain putting together the pieces. Murdock more than likely knew the duration of his house arrest, explaining why he’d been so calm when pertaining the issue a few weeks ago. He was blind, so that explained the mask situation with the seemingly opaque eye holes. The familiarity of the Devil’s voice made sense, and Clint finally understood the big picture... for the most part. But Matthew Murdock had Clint’s first words upon his wrist, and Clint had the Devil’s (née, Matthew’s) words upon his collarbone.

They were soulmates. So why had Murdock lied to him?

“Why?” Came the bewildered, yet betrayed question from Clint’s lips. He blinked and came out of his trance, finding Murdock standing not far from him with a coffee-soaked and glass-ridden rag in hand. The other man just sighed, puttering about the kitchen to finish cleaning the glass and coffee, before speaking.

“I… knew that I couldn’t push you away to save you, because we both lead similar lifestyles. I wasn’t ready to meet my soulmate, and I didn’t want to drag you into the risks that I run by myself--”

Clint could only furrow his brows in confusion, his slight frustration with the shit excuse making itself evident.

“‘Drag me into the risks you run’? Are you kidding me?? You literally micromanage the shit out of a _mile_ of New York!”

“I also said that I wasn’t exactly ready to meet my soulmate, either. Imagine finding out--”

“What? That your soulmate isn’t unrequited and that you went into a depressive slump rethinking your life for no reason?”

Murdock snapped his mouth shut, scrubbing his face tiredly. For a moment, it seemed as though he was at a loss for words, but he composed himself and spoke in a level tone.

“If you had found out I was your soulmate first, would you have told me first thing?”

It was Clint’s time to fall silent this time. Truth be told, no matter who his soulmate, unless it had been one of the Avengers (or the now ex-Avengers), he definitely wouldn’t have said anything. Having a soulmate with a lifestyle such as Clint’s with aliens and being in the public eye often, he wouldn’t have wanted to wish that upon anyone else. Knowing that his soulmate was Daredevil, however…

“I would have told you-- you’re my soulmate, and you already know what this life is like.”

Murdock nodded stiffly, moving back to the chair where his blazer rested. He pulled it on, before grabbing his tie. Clint was still mildly upset with the fact that Murdock was a dumbass and hadn’t said anything about being soulmates earlier, but he found these feelings fading slowly because at least he grew a pair and said _something._ Otherwise… well, Clint didn’t want to think about what his life would have been.

He glanced over at Murdock fumbling with his tie, and approached, gently touching his hands. The tie was let go and Clint took it between his fingers, feeling the textured silk under his calloused touch. He didn’t know how the guy had gotten this far, but he commended him for his time spent maneuvering his way through business attire thus far.

“I can tie--”

Clint shushed him, before tying it the way he learned a many years ago.

“Over, under, around and…” Clint muttered under his breath, before taking a step back and admiring his work. Murdock furrowed his brows and touched the tie.

“Did… Did you tie this like you would tie your shoelaces?”

“Uhhhh… no?” Came the slightly sheepish response, and a small smile graced the lawyer’s face.

“You,” There was a soft sigh, almost like an almost-laugh, “You are the biggest dork.”

“But I’m your dork.” Clint grinned smugly in response, and almost regretted it when Murdock raised a brow in his direction.

“Unfortunately.”

“Hey!”

Clint felt his soulmark tingle, causing his heart to swell and his mind to go a little bit fuzzy.

 

Things would be okay. It could only go up from here.

 

...Right?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! don't forget to read my other hawkdevil fic "Two Halves of One Whole Dumbass", wherein Clint and Matty are just... hot messes.
> 
> also if you want me to write any specific hawkdevil/winterhawk fic I gotchu. there are only like 9 writers between the two ships and definitely not enough fics.


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